


The King's Lost Love

by Clara_Siey



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Drama, Lost Love, M/M, Poetry, Smut, Songfic, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 13:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21477346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_Siey/pseuds/Clara_Siey
Summary: How you are doing, dear heart?Do you even exist still?I crave something,but it pains me to think about it.Your touch, perhaps?Your kiss, perhaps?Your voice?You, perhaps.Save me, my love.
Relationships: Canute/Thorfinn (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	The King's Lost Love

_ “Farewell to you, my love.” _

Add half a cup of water, a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of sugar. Mortar and pestle, stained by indigo-colored substances that will carve his way to victory. Odin’s Helm, Monkshood — in his drink.

The golden crown fitted perfectly on his head. Its gold, diamonds and other precious stone reflected his image of power and his steps forward.

He was nothing but a young lad once. He prayed, bathed in warm basins, loved his fellow people and he was happy. In the absence of his father, Sweyn Forkbeard, the king, he found solace in his caretaker’s arms.

Lullabies were sung night after night for the sake of comfort.

Prayers were spoken day after day for the sake of comfort.

The priest recited the Lord’s prayer as Canute, the Danish prince, clasped his hands just before his winged helmet. He was praying for the warriors surrounding him, praying for good wealth and health after this red staining war. He never wanted anything but peace, not power — and that was perhaps why his father detested him.

He prayed and prayed.

Chattering voices of men, thrown questions and howls of perverse wishes ran rampant as he sat on the back of the wagon, wrists bound by wooden cuffs, head hanging low, evading spear-like questions.

Blackened mind, he does not know what he must think or do, but Ragnar’s presence was calming enough that he has someone.

He never had anyone aside from his caretaker.

Until _ he _came along.

Heated amber colors engulfed everything in its way and devoured nature’s creation with a cackles of burning noises. Hooves after hooves, calls and cries of dying gentle woodbeasts and bloodthirsty men echoed up to the darkened sky.

Before him, a young man stood.

He spoke the prince’s name after stabbing a man in his neck, and for sure — the prince felt some sort of fascination from seeing the young one’s face.

He was not a boy anymore but not too old to be called a man. His face — carved from years of experience and suppressed emotions. His hands — scarred by endless battles.

He learned the young warrior’s name.

Thorfinn, Son of Thors.

He found the warrior interesting, but frightening. His brows would lower into a perpetual death glare, his lips would slightly pucker in an uptight sneer — and yet, he can’t help but be fascinated.

Thorfinn was sharp and precise in battle, quiet and reserved in company, but deviating in every angle — in every touch.

Little did the prince know that their petty and senseless squabbles in the wagon would lead to something more, something warmer, something sinful, unknown, unprecedented… exhilarating and holy.

They exchanged body heat in times of cold winter nights. Their subtle touches would lead from comfort to curiosity, curiosity to need, and from need to addiction.

_ I ran my fingers on your stomach and you would tremble at every touch. Although my fingertips were never cold, in fact, they are warm. _

_ Tell me, my love. Do you wish for something more? _

_ Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. _

They would kiss and bathe in cold rivers, only having each other’s skin as a source of warmth and he, Thorfinn, did not mind it. His strong and calloused hands would snake across the prince’s skin, he would hold his pale hips to meet his, pull his flushed face to meet his lips and he would speak words of gentleness and promises unknown outside their tent and space.

_ Your name is like a prayer in my lips, _

_ my altar is your hips, _

_ our moans are my song _

_ and our skin would sing along. _

He’s like a god; he walks like one, fights like one, satisfies like one, but such words can only be utter from the prince’s mouth.

Subtlety would bathe their atmosphere outside their world. You will know such closed feelings when you look closer and clearer.

Small touches of finger tips, long glances, parted lips and unnoticeable body languages.

The young warrior would embrace His Highness for warmth and comfort and Canute would allow himself to sink in deeper in the warm feeling being offered, but the young warrior is plagued by the darkness in his mind. “Invisible archers,” he would tell the prince, still raw from his nightmares. Prince Canute would hold his hand and sing the lullabies Ragnar would sing to him before.

The warrior would fall back to sleep with the face of the boy he really should be. 

“You are frightening, bizarre… and beautiful.”

In times of peaceful nights, filled with embraces next to the dying embers of firewood. Canute would identify the meaning of their actions, their glances and the messages behind every kisses. He would like to understand what they are experiencing — and if Thorfinn also feels the same way.

He fears the topic too much, he was afraid to understand for some odd reason. He’s afraid that it would frighten his partner. What can it be called to what they are feeling? “Content?” He spoke in such a whisper, but it does not fit the glove right. “Happiness?” He does feel warm and happy when he is with him.

_ He would wrap his arms around my body, _

_ he would say my name as if it was something holy, _

_ he would look me in the eye _

_ before landing his lips on mine. _

_ “Touch me, my love.” _

Love, is what he is feeling.

But amidst of all their joy, they are being tracked down.

The warm cottage was fogged by invisible smoke. His caretaker’s body laid down in front of him. His hands held the hilt of his long sword and his eyes closed with his mouth shut.

A spear. He was speared in the battle.

“What are you doing, Thorfinn?! Kill them all! Throw your knives!”

“Shut up! I’m out of throwing knives!”

He hears them, he is soaked in blood and war cries, redder than his cloak, noisier than the voices in his head.

He blames himself. He is too weak, too fragile, too at peace… too in love. 

He is still the Prince of Denmark nevertheless, he will inherit lands from his father, but he was created for the sake of ‘option’. His father, King Sweyn, ruler of a kingdom; his mother, unknown and exiled; His brother, Harald, in favor of the king and the next ruler of the kingdom… and him, who is he?

An option, an option, an option.

He resents his existence, he blames himself for the death of his foster father, he blames himself for being _ him. _

He is the death of himself.

He pulls the string of the bow, aiming the arrow towards the young man with pale golden locks, iron helmet and red cloak.

He is both the archer and the prey.

Ragnar has finally bid him farewell and the prince had expressed his desire to live as common as Ragnar, wishing and praying to be reborn as his son in another life.

The blood-soaked snow, redder than his cloak; Bjorn raging like a beast, carrying out his loyal duties; the priest, spoke words of love and beauty and the corpse… offering sustenance and shelter to smaller creatures unconditionally.

His death had completed him.

What a loveless world. Only discrimination. 

The world is too complex and vast for a young lad like him, but he finally knew that this world must not exist anymore. This world does not carry _ love _, he must create a paradise and rebel against the God who created everything.

Then he remembers the _ god _whose hips he worships.

“I love him, but does he love me?”

Questions ran in his mind even after the success of entering his father’s stronghold. His humble abode were decorated with assassins hidden in the shadows, and Thorfinn was by his side… and that was enough.

He will be enough, his presence, his gaze, his touch. He will build a paradise so warm and perfect, warmer and brighter than what they had in the sheets.

Fraudulent smiles and greetings were exchanged in court; assassination after assassination, Askeladd’s plans were becoming more and more stressful; messengers and doubtful people surrounds him.

Night was his only safe haven. With a man between his hips, thrusting in him endlessly with such fervor and he enjoys its pain and pleasure. He touched every cut, muscle, scars and wounds on Thorfinn’s body and the young Norse did the same to the man whose flesh was wrapping around him. 

“More!” He moaned in ecstasy. His eyes crossed, rolled back from the intense surge of pleasure. The warrior pulled on his hair, bit and sucked and scratched him, pounded his insides and bruised his throat.

The prince whispered, “Oh, my god.” Referring to his god inside of him, pleasuring him, as he worships him.

_ In and out, in and out, _

_ Our skin slapped, _

_ Arms tangle about, _

_ Pain and lust cannot be stopped. _

Ragnar’s death hasn’t left his mind; too painful to let go of, that’s why he overpowers his grief by orgasm, but the sole origin of his eventual orgasm was his grief.

From grief, soon came acceptance and acceptance led to the desire of change; a crave for power.

And desire was soon followed by shock.

The golden crown fell, so is the blood of its wearer. The crown rolled off to one side, his father’s head fell on the other side, screams of fear and protests overwhelmed the dining hall, Askeladd’s strength overpowers these men’s very being.

The king of Brittania had given this opportunity to the prince so he could save his homeland and fulfill his promise to Ragnar.

Canute was forever grateful and he ended the chaos with shaking hands on a sword’s handle.

He had taken the life of Thorfinn’s prey and he saw the way his lover looked at him and…

_ Slash! _

The incision was not too deep nor too shallow, it was enough to make Canute feel… alive. His blade was sharp against his skin, it was as sharp as his teeth against his neck and chest. Territorial marks that would fester for weeks, only having another one of his collections.

“A meager price,” He said.

The warrior, wide eyed, barely breathing and moving, was dragged away from the prince only moaning a hoarse cry after.

A second passed, he stifled a cry. A minute passed, he asserted his power. An hour passed, he collapsed. 

The prince would often visit his lover in his makeshift prison at night. He had saved him 3 times that fateful day, he saved him from the royal guards, from Floki and from Askeladd and yet — what he did was unjust. 

"Do you still love me?" 

Thorfinn was like a hollow shell, seated in a pile of hay, back leaning against the metal bars and eyes empty. Canute felt sorry for him, he's beginning to blame himself, but behind the secondhand grief, he feels anger. 

"Wake up, Thorfinn!" He screamed at the raggedy doll whose collar was stretched in Canute's fists. "Askeladd is dead! Give up your vengeful promise!" Prince — or _ King _Canute shouted. 

A warm orange bathed their skin, only having torches against cobblestones as their light source. Both of the boys' golden locks shimmered under the light like wheat bathing in sunlight, but that is such a warm narrative to an icy, cold and empty confrontation. 

_ You have created a masterpiece in my bed, in my clothes, in my skin. _

_ Your eyes glistened under my touch, pretty tears staining golden rims. _

_ You have undressed me, physically, emotionally and mentally. _

_ So what do you want to do, my beloved? Tear everything up before I can tally. _

Thorfinn said quietly, almost like a dying whisper, and yet — the king couldn't utter a word. He knows what he had done, he knows his actions and knows this man. 

He left wounded. 

After days, weeks, months, he had forgotten the feeling of his lover's taste, touch, and warmth — and he did not feel anything when he sold his broken beloved as a slave. He, too, became a hollow shell like him. 

He must be happy, he really should be. 

He had sold his lover to a wealthy farm that has a reputation of freeing and employing their slaves. 

Now that Thorfinn’s presence was gone, his mind was plagued by another enemy, his father. 

King Sweyn's head would appear and mock his son for being idiotic, selfish and manipulative… like a true king. The Danish royal would sometimes ignore and sometimes entertain the decapitated head of his predecessor, but he vows not to be like him no matter what. 

His hobby for cooking had died together with Ragnar, but it was reborn into something new — and lethal. 

_ Dark blue liquid stained his red tunic, burn it. _

_ His used hands would touch the lips of his chalice, bury it. _

_ A servant offering him refreshments, throw it. _

He fears and uses poison. Dangerous and deadly and would often stain harvested wheats for his enemies, he would conjure the beauty and peace it will bring. 

Like how every kisses from _ his _ mouth would ignite and numb and burn his royal skin like the belladonna he wielded. 

He would whisper his love's name unconsciously, mourn for his lost, mourn for the death of the young boys they had once been in that little tent, in the snow, in the cottage, in the wagon. 

He would mouth his name in the war room, in political meetings, in front of the enemies and moan his name as he touch himself to keep him warm in his solitude.

Hoping he would respond. 

His eyes would soften whenever Thorkell the Tall would mention his great nephew's name. The legendary Norse warrior would notice this, but he remained quiet and continue his merry-making noises. 

Waves crash, swords clash. He is a king, a ruler. He dominates the war room where every single man is faithful and loyal, they're dancing in his palms. He is not alone when he dies in the battlefield — and it will not be lonely. 

But he is, in his bed chamber. 

King Sweyn's head would manifest before him in his darkest nightmares and lately, it wasn't his constant mockery of his power and resemblance to the said king. He would puncture his heart, remind him of the _ masterpiece _ he tore up. 

_ Oh, foolish son. Do you even have a heart? _

_ You said you love the man, but why did you sacrifice the one thing you have ever known for greed and power? _

_ Oh, foolish boy. Do you know your true purpose? _

_ You oath to build a paradise for you and your people, but you have forgotten the true paradise you have felt with him. _

_ Oh, foolish child. Are you even aware of what you have lost to gain all of these materials? _

"Mother Moon, I blame you for destroying my crops, for driving my herd away from fresh waters. Mother Moon, I blame you for devouring my ships and men. I blame you for the tides."

Red, yellow, lavender decorated his complexion as the waves crashed to his right. He wanted power and wealth, a way for him to build an earthly paradise for mortals, but he had heard a familiar name. 

The scar on his cheek throbbed at the name mentioned. 

Thorfinn, Son of Thors. 

He whispered the name and felt and remembered how smooth it rolled in his tongue. He wanted to scream, cry, laugh — everything, but he must remain cautious. 

He had sold him, abandoned his love and killed his enemy. 

Of course, hate would be a must for someone like him.

When he saw his bruised and wounded face, he thought he had seen… God. 

His golden hair shone brightly against the kisses of the dozing sun, how he held himself was similar to his younger counterpart but stood more mature and less threatening, and his eyes had a different category of the word 'strength'. 

Thorfinn spoke with a calm and mature tone, something that surprised His Majesty. "You speak like Askeladd," was his only reply and he did speak like the rightful king of Old Britannia. 

The young warrior negotiated and offered options and alternatives, Canute was listening, but he cannot shake the feeling of longing in his whole being. 

He is standing in front of him, the same man who filled his head with talk of peaceful summer evenings, who trickled hot water and pleasure on his skin, who spoke his name so casually yet with such generosity. 

"You will have to stop me." His Majesty said as to cover his aching and longing soul. 

He stated that he is the strongest viking, an emperor, a _ boss _of bosses and he owns a thousand ships and a million men — and Thorfinn seemed to listen to his display of power carefully. 

_ "Kill him, my son." _

And yet, the young Norse would only… run.

The king had never been in such a tight peace negotiation before. 

The king had never felt anything more raw and painful other than the sour, bitter and sweet feeling in his chest. 

The waves were no more for him, the Jomsvikings were dusts for him, the heat of the sun were only small pricks for him. 

The only thing that exists in this loveless world is him… and his beloved. 

His boots dug deep in the golden sand and his calloused hands cupped the bruised face of his lost love, lifted to meet his eyes and landed a kiss of yesterday's bliss. 

_ Iron-flavored lips, _

_ trembling body from familiar feelings. _

_ Musk on your neck, _

_ lavender from your breath. _

_ You are supposed to push me away and tell me, "I hate you, why did you do this?" _

_ But your swelling lips latched onto mine, _

_ to taste the sweet roasted pine. _

_ Oh, my heaven. Why do you look at me in such a way? _

_ Am I worthy of your forgiveness? I say nay. _

_ 4 winters, I will express my love to thee, _

_ Now let me ask you, "do you still love me?" _

Silence almost overpowered God's raging waves, King Canute's guards stood frozen into place, Thorfinn’s eyes wide from the deep and raw confession and yet, he closed his eyes once again. 

_ Humming, _

_ breathing, swaying… _

_ smiling — _

_ with royal hands on his waist. _

_ "Oh, how I've missed you, my love." He says. _

There was his answer. Thorfinn had loved him, and the way he brushed his swollen nose against his was also a form of response; the response he longed for in lonely nights, in painful battles and attempted assassinations. 

Unprecedented peace and love between two men of opposite statuses were strange for the people surrounding them, but common for the nature applauding them. 

This love had brought back the boys buried in the snow, like the ships Mother Moon had swallowed. This love had brought back the dead to life. 

It came back to him. 

The bruises and marks Thorfinn had left on Canute's skin vanished overtime, yet the scar remained. It became His Majesty's permanent mark of his beloved. 

The sun had set, and so did their reunion. Canute laid one last kiss on his lover's lips before bidding farewell.

"We will work on building our paradise, that is why I have to let you go."

It was inevitable, it was painful, it was remorseful… but peaceful. 

Love and closure had given him peace of mind, pain and another needed longing was present, but also happiness. He remembered how it felt like to be that dainty and helpless prince he once was, he miraculously remembered all the words of Ragnar's lullabies once again, he remembered heated touches and kisses of temporary happiness. 

He was feeling _ real _ emotions once again. 

He looked at him with a smile from the distance, he felt lighter on his feet and less darker in his mind and he was happy to remove and untangle himself from the chains of his father's taunts.

"It feels good," he said with a carefree smile. 

"Mother Moon, I thank you for these waves. You have brought me back to him. Mother Moon, I thank you for the cold rivers we bathed in. Without your freezing spells, we would not be too close to use our body heat. Mother Moon, I thank you for allowing me to drown in this… god."

King Canute gained control of both England and Denmark and he laid his newly found and earned trust on his fateful subjects and servants and he, too, became a servant to his subjects. He will help them unconditionally, maintain peace unconditionally and protect them unconditionally… like how a true king _ must _ rule. 

And for once in his adult life, he clasped his hands once again and prayed to God. 

"Protect and bless Thorfinn, Father Almighty."

The following nights were peaceful, quiet and warm. 

He is not lost anymore, he had regained his own paradise. 

_ "You have set me free, my love." _

  
  
  


_ Seven days in the summer to build my acceptance. _

_ On the first day, I received a letter in the form of a scroll. I ruled and helped and reciprocated. _

_ On the first day, I wore robes of white, shades of blue and a tint of gold. I adorned myself with jewelry and precious stones. _

_ On the second day, I burned blue flowers and red berries to be reborn. _

_ The second day was peaceful, surrounded by attendants I trust and love. _

_ On the third day, the midnight sky wept and so did I. _

_ I laid on my bed and count the lines on my palms. _

_ Constellations, what do you have for me? Why does it hurt? _

_ I thought I have accepted his departure. Tell me, dear stars. _

_ On the fourth day, came acceptance. I remember its sensation, it's painful at first yet relieving and pleasurable in the end. _

_ On the fourth day, I bathe in musk and lavender. Greeted the shore and the river and the blade and the sparring session. _

_ On the fifth day, cramped space with powerful men and their invisible greedy crowns. _

_ On the sixth day, I wept in silence, but reminded myself of my acceptance and purpose. _

_ On the sixth day, my men mentioned the thought of an heir. Like the belladonna in my drawer, I did not dare. _

_ On the seventh day, I watched the sun's ardent slumber, eyed the horizon and felt the painful kisses of the earth. _

_ The seventh day was the last day. _

_ On the seventh day, I prayed, "May you always be satisfied with your life and marriage." _

**Author's Note:**

> I have some experience with poetry and I want to lay it out here in a form of fanfiction. I've been inspired by songs to make this one, compilation of poems and historical facts. 
> 
> Some things that inspired me to make this kind of narrative was Warsan Shire's poetry on Beyoncé's Lemonade album, Taylor Swift's songs, sonnets and ballads and that one (emotional) ThorNute fanfic, 'eternal' by babydeathclaw.
> 
> BIG FAT SPOILER, but  
the end poem is basically how Canute reacted to Thorfinn's marriage with Gudrid. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyes this one! Thank you for reading!


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